I futzed about the house till noontime. I prepared my laundry and dry cleaning for the weekly pickup. I scanned several personal letters I had received which I had intended to answer but now were so dated there was no point. I tore them up. I clipped my fingernails. I examined my tongue in the bathroom mirror. Yuck.

Actually, as I well knew, I was delaying what I had to do: drive to Fort Lauderdale and confront Pinky Schatz. I didn't relish another visit to the Leopard Club; all those juicy dancers and desiccated spectators seemed unbearably dreary. I mean when it comes to nudity, public revelation is in reverse ratio to private stimulation. Or something like that.

But when duty's bugle blares, yrs. truly is ready to lead the charge. Also, I consoled myself with the opportunities the trip offered to jigger my expense account. And so I set off whistling a merry tune and reflecting that if one strove to maintain a positive attitude, life could be a bowl of pasta con fagioli.

There had been reports of potential hurricanes heading our way, departing the coast of Africa and boiling westward. You'd never know it from that day's sky. Pellucid is the word. About the same shade of blue, I decided, as the wings on Theo Johnson's butterfly tattoo. But I digress.

I parked outside the Leopard Club and approached the guarded portal. The sentinel on duty was not the same chappie I had previously encountered. This one had the head of a bald eagle and the body of an insurance salesman.

"Is Pinky Schatz dancing today?" I inquired politely.

"Nah," he said. "She called in sick."

"Sick?" I cried. "Good heavens, I must bring the poor girl some chicken soup or calf's-foot jelly. Do you happen to know where she lives?"

The griffin looked at me. "Yeah," he said, "I know. But you don't."

"True enough," I said, taking out my wallet. "A Jackson?"

"A Grant," he said firmly.

Sighing, I handed over a fifty. He consulted a tattered notebook he extracted from his hip pocket. He gave me Pinky's address, and I was startled. I knew the building: an elegant high-rise condo on the Gait Ocean Mile.

"Fancy," I commented.

"What else?" he said. "If you got it, flaunt it. And Pinky's got it."

"How true, how true," I agreed.

It took another twenty minutes to drive down to the Gait Ocean Mile. On that stretch of beach a row of huge high-rise condos forms a concrete wall that effectively prevents the peasants from viewing the seascape. Life is unfair; even tykes know that.

I found Pinky's building and pulled into the Guest Parking area. I neglected to eyeball the other cars. That was an error because when I started to open the lobby door Reuben Hagler was about to exit. We both halted, shocked, and exchanged stares.

"Hey, Mr. Hagler," I said, my voice ripe with false joviality, "imagine meeting you here."

"Yeah," he said. "Small world."

"A friend is coming down from New York," I explained, "and wants to rent for a year. I understand they have some attractive rentals in this building."

"I'd guess so," he said. "One of my investors lives here, and he's got a lush pad. Have a nice day."

"You, too," I said, and we traded puny smiles.

I paused to light a cigarette slowly, long enough to observe him get into that gunmetal De Ville I should have spotted. He drove away and I discovered I was suffering a mild attack of the heebie-jeebies. Did you ever catch Bela Lugosi in Dracula? That was Reuben Hagler. He looked as if he had just yawned, stretched, and climbed out of his coffin.

Of course Hagler could have been telling the truth and had just visited a male client rather than Pinky Schatz. And if you believe that, I told myself, leave an extracted molar under your pillow and expect the Truth Fairy to arrive.

I sauntered over to the security desk, where a uniformed stalwart (armed) was on duty.

"To see Miss Pinky Schatz, please," I said.

"Name?" he demanded.

I remembered who I was just in time. "Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth," I told him.

"What was that?" he said.

"Just announce me as Chauncey," I advised.

He looked up her number in a ledger, stabbed his phone, and murmured. "Okay," he said to me. "Apartment Nineteen-ten. First elevator on your right."

"Thank you," I said. "Attractive building. Do you have any security problems here?"

"Do dogs have fleas?" he asked, reasonably enough.

I rode a silent, Formica-paneled elevator to the nineteenth floor. The corridor was ceramic tile. Impressive, but the color was off-putting: a sort of pasty pink. I remembered how my tongue had looked that morning.

Ms. Schatz opened the door wearing a diaphanous peignoir. I was aware of it but all I could see was her face. Ah, bejaysus, but she was sporting a fine mouse under her left eye. It was of recent vintage and I knew that within an hour it would be rainbowed. Raw steak or leeches wouldn't help. Pancake makeup might.

"Good lord," I said, "what happened to you?"

"An accident," she said dully. "Come on in."

It was a one-bedroom condo decorated in a style I call Florida Glitz. That includes veined mirrors, patterned tiles, silver foil wallpaper, a glass cocktail table on a base of driftwood and, of course, the requisite six-ft. ficus tree made of silk. I mean the place shrieked. But the glitter was dimmed by an overall scruffiness; everything needed an industrial-strength douche.

"I wasn't going to let you in," she said. "I don't feel so hot."

"Would you like me to go?" I asked.

"Nah," she said, "you can stay. I was about to have a wallop. Would you like one, Chauncey?"

"A wallop of what?"

"All I got is gin. I like to mix it with diet cream soda. How about it?"

"I think not," I said hastily. "But a splash of gin on the rocks would be nice."

I watched her mince into the kitchen. She may have been injured but she still jiggled. She returned a few moments later with our drinks. She had given me more than a splash of gin but that was all right; I needed it; deceit makes me thirsty.

She lolled on an enormous couch covered with greasy cerise velvet. I sat in an overstuffed armchair big enough to accommodate King Kong. I looked at her but she didn't look at me. She was busy feeling that discoloration under her eye.

"Hurt?" I said.

"I've been hurt before," she said defiantly. "The story of my life. How did you find out where I live, Chauncey?"

"Fifty bucks."

Her smile was sour. "That Ernie," she said. "He'd sell his sister if anyone wanted to buy, which no one does. How come you looked me up?"

"I just want to find the man who killed Shirley Feebling."

"Yeah?" she said, and gave me a cruel, knowing glance. "You sure you're not looking for a replacement? Like me?"

Sad, sad, sad.

"Pinky," I said, "can we stop playing games? Please. I'm certain you know more about Shirl's murder than you've told the police."

She said nothing, just sipped her noxious drink and kept touching her bruise.

"I thought she was your best friend," I continued.

"I got a lot of best friends," she said. "Women and men both."

"I can promise you protection," I told her.

"No, you can't," she said. "Not total. I don't mind getting hurt occasionally; that comes with the territory. But I don't want to end up like Shirl, with my brains splattered."

"You won't. If you're willing to tell what you know, the cops will pick him up and shove him behind bars. You have nothing to fear."

"What are you talking about?" she said. "Who is him?"

I decided I might as well go for broke. "Reuben Hagler," I said. "The man who just gave you that black eye. Drives a Cadillac with Michigan plates. You knew he was tailing Shirley. And you know or suspect he was the one who put her down."

"You're nuts," she said, affectedly bored.